No one knew or understood how he could stand with his back straight, his face expressionless, emotionless. He'd just suffered an attack to his lands and his people, the first one to hit since the bombing of Pearl Harbor in December of 1941. They'd expected him to be hunched over, still reeling from the pain, yet he stood straight, he stood tall, and he stood proud.
Perhaps it was because of his stubborn nature – America had never been one to let anything get him down for long – that he refused to show weakness in front of them, that he even showed up for the meeting in the first place. No one failed to notice the blackened skin circling his right eye or the gash above his right temple. There were probably some more bruises and cuts where no one could see, all equally painful.
They wouldn't have blamed him, if he'd decided to not show up for the meeting. The loss of life in such a short amount of time had to be breathtakingly staggering and painful. Yet there he was, his face remaining expressionless as those who were his closest allies approached him. They were concerned for him, for his people, and to how he would react to the attacks. Everyone knew his people were shocked, confused, and outraged by what had happened. Who could blame them? In their eyes, the attacks happened for no reason, and they wanted answers, justice, and revenge. If it had happened to one of them, their people would feel the same way.
Those who approached him, they didn't really dare touch him even though it's what they wanted to do the most. There were tears in their eyes, and they reached for him, expecting what, they didn't know. They just held out their arms, like a parent seeking to comfort a distraught child. In a way, that's what they were, the nations of England and France, America and Canada.
For a moment, no one said a thing. He stood still, watching, wary, of those who'd had the biggest impact on his life before finally, hesitantly accepting their embraces. A tired yet reassuring smile appeared on his face, and he said he was fine, that he would be okay. It would take more than that to break him, he said. He was strong, and he would prevail. He would move forward. He had his people to guide him and give him his strength, after all.
February 2022
Feliciano's eyes opened, tears rolling over the bridge of his nose and down his cheeks. It had been the same dream he'd been having since the last World conference where nearly every nation had lit into America and caused his disappearance. Every single time, he awoke from that nightmarish dream with the tears unchecked, unbidden, and years had passed since that last meeting. It was something he tried very hard to keep a secret from both Ludwig and Lovino, though, why, he wasn't sure.
'I do not understand this,' he thought, wiping his eyes. 'Why? What is wrong? Why do I keep crying like this?' A sigh escaped him. 'I do miss America. We were only ever enemies that one time. He was always so much fun, making what he thought was Italian food. And even that wasn't too bad. I should tell Ludwig and Lovino . . . it hurts too much to do this every day . . . but what would they say? Call me weak and a coward? Perhaps I am, but I can't help it.'
He shuffled his way from his room into the kitchen. Lovino sat at the counter, his attention fixed on the television. His brother's usual scowl had been replaced with a slack-jawed shock.
"And, in other news," the reporter was saying, "the United States has announced its withdrawal from both the Paris Climate Accord and N.A.T.O. World leaders are speculating what such a move means in light of recent events. Ambassadors to each nation have either returned to their homeland or have remained close-lipped on the matter, citing their leaders know what it is that they're doing. No other official word has come from the country's leaders, whoever they may be. With the Chinese increasing their military strength . . ."
The rest of the words disappeared into a buzz. Feliciano stared at the screen, as equally shocked as his brother. America? No longer part of the Paris Climate Accord or .O.? On top of having all citizens return home and closing embassies and consulates? What else was the North American nation going to do next? His mind refused to comprehend what it was Canada and Mexico had told them. The world was simply going into too much chaos, and there was only one way he knew how to cope with that.
"I . . ." His voice barely reached a whisper. "I need to make some pasta . . ."
"Pasta?" his brother echoed. "Pasta? How can you think of pasta at a time like this?"
"America . . . he likes my cooking, yes? If I make pasta . . ." Feliciano trailed off, then set about gathering what he needed. "Germany, he says . . ."
He blinked away some tears. His brother's angry face blurred in the process, and frustration coursed through him. Feliciano didn't want the tears to fall. He didn't want to believe everything he was hearing was actually happening. He scrubbed them away as fast he could, but they refused to stop. His belly did flops like they'd never done before – and it had done much flopping whenever a confrontation occurred in front of him; Feliciano never liked fighting all that much, but this was something different, something that ran deeper than what any words could convey.
"What does that bastard say?" Lovino asked, his tone quieter than usual. "And why would you want to make pasta? Would it be for America to eat? No one has seen him . . . no nation has seen him, anyway."
"Germany said Austria tried to reach America with food." Feliciano offered a weak smile. "They think maybe that it worked. Germany's boss, she insisted that he and Austria stay for the talks, but Prussia. He snuck off to America's embassy."
"Did Prussia see America?" There was a slight whisper of hope in his brother's voice. Feliciano wrung his hands out of anxiety and a tad bit of his own hope.
"No," and he shook his head. "No. They did swear that America was there. They felt his presence, but it was so off, so wrong. He hid from Prussia somehow, but they know he took the food Austria made for him. Maybe . . . maybe if we go to the American embassy today with some pasta, we can surprise America before he comes here and . . . and . . ." He lowered his head. "Before he does the same thing to us as he's done to Germany and Japan."
"You think he will?" Lovino's question was quiet and somehow a lot scarier than if he'd started screaming and shouting at him, calling him a fool for being who he was.
"I don't know," Feliciano whispered. "I don't. We lost Grandpa Rome somehow, and now we might be losing America, too. I don't like it. I don't like losing friends, Lovino."
"You're not going to lose anyone, stupido," Lovino answered with his usual scowl. However, his words lacked their usual growl and bite. "No one's going to lose anyone."
"You don't sound so certain," Feliciano pointed out, lowering his gaze. "You always sound certain. About everything. What happened when you visited Antonio and America's delegation was there?"
"I . . ." Lovino exhaled. "I don't know. I stayed with that stupido Antonio. He'd passed out just before his boss called. When he woke up, he was feeling better. America's delegation, they had, uh, they had given his country a financial boost. This was after America's people visited Greece, and . . ."
"Gave him money, too," he whispered. "And then there was the visit to Germany . . . I . . . I have to . . . no . . . I must make some pasta. I have to be prepared for the world conference."
"You're going to go through with this?" Lovino inquired.
"Why shouldn't I?" He lifted his gaze up, courage flowing through him. "It would be like one of those intervention shows that America loves to watch. How else do you stop a friend from hurting himself? Isn't that what Americans do? Find ways to save and fight for those they love and care about?"
"Interventions?" his twin shook his head. "What kind of shows did America create?"
"Crazy ones," Feliciano said. He smiled, just a little. "Some were good. Others were . . ."
"Stupido," they both finished at the same time. They normally laughed when they said the same thing at the same time, but this time was different. There was something wrong in the world, something wrong with America, and, in truth, it scared them. Feliciano knew it scared his twin because it was rare for them to agree on anything. The only time in recent history that they could recall ever agreeing was during the Cold War between America and Russia.
"What else will you need?" Lovino asked.
"Hn?" Feliciano blinked, confused. He'd already grabbed the flour.
"For your pasta, stupido," his brother growled. "What else do you need? You can't just make any normal pasta for a world meeting, not if you're going to try and lure America there with it. He has that Guy Fieri dude cooking somewhere in his nation. It needs to be the best pasta you've ever made."
"Guy Fieri?" Again, Feliciano blinked, his confusion getting the better of him. Then it struck him like a bolt of lightning as to what his twin was saying. "Oh! That guy! I know who that guy is! Si, you are correct, Romano! It must be the best and tastiest pasta ever! What do you suggest we do? I could always use a hand in making it!"
To that, his brother rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath once more before he headed out the kitchen door and into their garden. The only time they ever used dried herbs in their sauces and cooking was during the winter months, when the conditions weren't quite right to be growing much of anything, and even then, the dried herbs came from Feliciano's garden.
'America, he always loved visiting with me,' Feliciano mused as he began his pasta preparation. 'Always loved to cook with me, too. I miss that. How . . .' He sniffled a little. 'How did we ever get so far apart from that? I do not understand anymore. The world would be a much better place if we all just sat down together and talked and shared a meal . . . I hear the Nordics continue to do that. Maybe . . . maybe I shall start doing that, too. Invite Germany, Mr. Austria, Mr. Prussia, and Ms Hungary over . . . maybe Spain, too, and America. Definitely invite America.'
While he worked the dough for his pasta, Feliciano's vision started to blur a little. His stomach cramped up a little, and a sensation of wrongness began to invade his senses. His head spun from the sudden onslaught of this new feeling. Groaning, Feliciano lowered his head.
"What's wrong?"
Feliciano lifted his head the moment Romano spoke to him, his usual bite and insult gone. If anything, through his blurred vision, his brother looked pale, like he'd seen a ghost.
"I'm not feeling well all of a sudden," Feliciano muttered. "And I do not understand why. It's just so . . . off and so . . ."
"Wrong?" his twin said.
"Yeah . . ."
"I'm feeling it, too," Romano stated. "Antonio, he said the same thing when I was there last, when . . ."
Their eyes widened at the realization, and Romano dropped the herbs he'd picked.
"America," they whispered in unison. Feliciano's cell phone rang at that moment, causing both to jump.
"Tell your boss we can't accept any help from the Americans," Romano stated. He crossed the distance between them in a flash. "She just can't!"
"But what excuse can I give her?" Feliciano wailed. "It can't be because I'm scared! She already knows!"
"You idiota! Tell her we don't need their help! It's going to come at a big cost!" he screeched. "Tell her . . . tell her it could interfere with our trade relations with China! I don't know! Tell her something!"
Feliciano could only stare at his older brother, shocked. His brain came to a screeching halt with the confrontation (was it really a confrontation, though) taking place before him. He blinked, gaped, then blinked and gaped some more. All the while, his phone continued to ring. It stopped for a moment, probably going straight to voicemail, before it resumed its incessant ringing again. Then Germany's words about his visit with the American delegation came back to him.
"Everything vash gone by the time my bruder got there," he'd lamented. "Amerika, he vash quick in the leaving. We didn't even get a chance to offer him a meal and plead with him to join us for a vorld meeting. I have never felt like such a failure before. Even the end of the var doesn't compare to anything like thish."
"I've got to answer it," he stated meekly. "I've got to at least try."
"Try?" It was Romano's turn to blink at him, stunned. "Try what?"
"To see America," he responded. He reached for his phone as it stopped ringing then resumed for a third time. "We . . . I can tell my boss I will only show up and accept what the Americans have to offer if America himself is there with me . . . no excuses, si? That should work . . . si?"
"It . . . might just . . ." Romano slowly conceded. Italy nodded then answered on the third ring.
"This is Feliciano," he said in his best cheerful tone. It struck him as odd that he sounded like that. He didn't feel the least bit cheerful. If anything, he felt downright sick to his stomach.
"It's about time you answered," his boss exclaimed. "What were you a-doing? Taking another siesta?"
"Oh, no," Italy said, laughing nervously. "I was in the bathroom. I forgot to take my phone with me. How silly! Is there something I can a-help you with?"
"Yes, there is," she stated. "The Americans, they have come here and requested a meeting with us. They haven't told us what they a-want just yet, but there are a-some who are a little nervous about this. We'd like for you to a-join us in discussing things with them."
"Will America himself be with them?" Italy inquired. His heart thumped loudly in his chest. His fear caused his hands to be sweaty, and they trembled with each syllable he uttered.
'Please let this work,' he prayed. 'Please let this work.'
"That we do not know for certain, Italia," his boss murmured. "Why are you asking me such a question?"
"Because . . ." he faltered for a second then brightened upon seeing his ingredients on the counter. "Because I was going to make some-a pasta, and I want to share it with him and his delegation. A little pasta will always make every meeting better, si? How long before we are to meet with them?"
"They wish to meet immediately," she replied, but Feliciano caught the hesitation in her voice. "But you raise an excellente point, Italia. I shall call them to let them know of your request as well. Give me a few minutes, and I will let you know what they say."
"Please stress that some of the pasta is going to be for America," he pleaded. "That I do not wish to do business with them unless he is there as well. Si? Please?"
"I shall do my best. Ciao."
"Ciao," he whispered as he ended the call. He met his twin's wide-eyed, incredulous stare. Feliciano exhaled then continued in the same whisper, "Fratello, if you could call Germany for me and let him know what is going on, I would greatly appreciate it. I . . . I have to make some pasta . . ."
"You haven't enough time to make it from scratch," Romano growled. He got into the freezer and pulled out a plastic bag. Without even looking at him, he shoved it into Feliciano's face. "Here. Use the back-up for emergencies . . . it's the one with the rosemary, thyme, and oregano in the pasta itself. America . . . he likes it better that way for some stupido reason. I'll call the potato bastard for you. I just hope you know what you're doing."
"Me, too," Feliciano said as he accepted the pasta and set the water on to boil. The minutes he waited for his boss to call him back dragged by slowly, making him feel like it was hours rather than the fifteen he ultimately waited when she finally called him back with the verdict. He ended the second call with an, "Okay, we'll be there", and continued to cook his pasta.
Author's Notes: Holy guacamole, Batman! An update! Where was this in December?
Unfinished. My apologies for the delay. I moved around quite a bit last year (at least for me), and I ended up getting a job in a local department/grocery store in my area. Finally finished this chapter last week for this week's update. I'd love to say I'm updating this story again next week, but I'm not holding out on being able to get the next chapter done in time. It is started, my friends! I promise! I'm simply scrambling and trying to carve out time for this story, a few other fanfics, and, of course, original works for self-publishing for sometime this year. Hopefully.
Historical Notes: Only using September 11. Main reason is time constraints, and the other is, aside from World War II, I'm not sure what historical aspect I could research between American/Italian relations. This chapter may see an update to content, just not sure when. The possibility is there, though!
Please enjoy!